


Three Years

by bornonthewrongside



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:12:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornonthewrongside/pseuds/bornonthewrongside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa waits for a date, but instead finds someone she thought she has long forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Years

Her naked back scratched lightly against the plastered walls, causing goosebumps to form along her skin. Her clothes were strewn carelessly around the room. The hardwood floors were cold against her bare feet. A breeze from the open window played with the ends of her hair.

 

His hands grasped at the nape of her neck, pulling her closer than she already was. His naked torso pressed against her naked chest, and he breathed in a deep moan. His lips traced their way down her neck. He placed his leg between her thighs, and she tightened against him.

 

Their lips touched, and the noises from the open window faded, the room around them blanked. As he bit her lip ever so lightly, she moaned out, and pressed her body against his even more. His hands reached around her, and lifted her. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he walked away from the wall to the bed.

 

The bed caved with their weight; the pillows and the blankets curved perfectly with their bodies. Her legs slid along his body, and she pressed harder against him. He moved to pull away from her lips, but she locked him with her. Deepening the kiss.

 

“Sandor,” She moaned.

  
  


_Five Hours Earlier:_

 

Sansa Stark stood silently, slouched against the wall by the bar. Her red hair was braided over her left shoulder, with a few strands loose, creating a frame of her face. Her ivory complexion was near flawless under the dimmed lights of the local tavern. The blue of her eyes was accented by her darker than usual make-up, though it was smudged from random eye rubbing throughout the day.

 

She looked around the packed room; people were milling around tables, waiting at the bar, or dancing near the back of the building. Not a single table was vacant, so Sansa stood off to the side waiting for a date her friend had set her up with.

 

As her eyes roamed, she noticed a familiar figure standing at the end of the bar. His strong features looked sullen, as they always did. He wore a plain black t-shirt and a red and brown plaid flannel, with his arms crossed. _Sandor Clegane_ , Sansa mouthed his name. She thought back on their time together; he was so brutal, but so kind. The man himself was a paradox, and Sansa longed to speak with him again, even if just for a moment. He looked up, and Sansa averted her gaze. Pretending to still be looking for the date she knew wasn’t coming.

 

He was only twenty minutes late, and there was still time to wait. Sansa tried to ignore the aching in her feet from standing on her feet for thirty minutes without moving. _It’s the shoes, you hate these shoes, Sansa Stark._

 

She started to wring her manicured hands together, looking around once more. Margaery had told her to look for a blonde with classic beauty, and his name started with a… K? No it was a H. Hank? Hans? Holden? No, Harry. She didn’t like that name, but people are not their name.

 

Another five minutes went by, and Sansa slowly started to panic. Why did she let herself get into this position? The position to be humiliated. The  bartender had already started to give her pitying looks every couple of minutes. An empty seat opened at the bar, and with quickly but small steps, she took it, stealing it from a college-aged guy who was about to sit.

 

“Dry martini.” Sansa said as she sat. “Wait, no. Scotch, neat.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned, grabbed a glass and a near full bottle of an amber liquid. Her poured the scotch in front of her, and went to wait on the growing mass of customers.

 

Her phone buzzed against her leg; she reached into her pocket to read the message that she knew was coming.

 

With an agitated sound, Sansa shut off her phone, and shoved into the clutch she brought with.

 

_Stupid little purse that can barely fit anything inside it. Stupid heels that hurt my feet, stupid dress that rises with each step, and has a stupid open back, so I’m cold._

 

She took the glass, and drained it in one gulp. With a slam of the glass, the bartender swooped back, and refilled it.

 

A man climbed onto the stool next to hers, his elbows knocking into her.

 

“Sorry,” Sansa scooted her stool over to the left, and then began to play with the ends of her hair as she looked over at the man.

 

Sansa almost bit off her tongue at the man sitting next to her. Sandor Clegane sat next to her. His large frame was hunch over the bar, waiting for the bartender to make his way back to them.

 

He glanced over at her, and huffed out a breath. His glance last less than a half second. But Sansa kept staring at him. She hadn’t seen him in months.

 

His hair was still too long to be considered kempt, and his hands were dirty and stained from his job as a mechanic. His eyes always had bags under them from constant stress, but they were most intense shade of grey Sansa had ever seen. They seemed to change shades and tones as his emotions changed. She remembered being so close to him, that she could see the faintest specks of brown in them.

 

She physically shook the thought out of her head, unknowingly getting Sandor’s attention.

 

“Are you a dog?” He looked over for just a moment, and then his eyes widened, and he looked back.

 

“Excuse me?” Sansa, wide eyed, looked back at Sandor, her hands still twirling her hair.

 

“I guess I should say a little bird.” Sandor let out a rough laugh, and wiped a hand across from one cheek to the other.

 

“Uh,” Sansa tried to think of something intelligible to say, but she got lost in the storm of his eyes. His face was rough and scarred. Ugly to many, but beautiful and complex to Sansa. His eyes were the only untouched part of his body; they were the same as when they last saw each other.

 

“Still quick to the punch I see,” He looked down the bar, “Oye! I want my drink!”

 

He turned his gaze back on her, and raked his eyes from her feet to her hair, “You’re waiting for a date?”

 

“Ye- No. I was.”  Sansa looked down at her tight dress, and _very_ high heels. Her eyes down casted in embarrassment. She felt her face heat, knowing that it was as red as a ripened tomato.

 

He didn’t say anything for a moment. The bartender shoved a scotch in front of Sandor, and Sandor drank it in one gulp. “Stupid man.”

 

“Who?”

 

“What?” He ripped his eyes out of a trance.

 

“Who is a stupid man?” Biting her lip, Sansa grabbed her drink, just to have something to do with her hands.

 

“Nobody.”

 

“Oh,” Sansa stared at him for a few moments more, and then drank her second glass. She wanted to say something else, but she could never find any words when she was near him.

 

Sandor sipped slowly at his scotch. His long fingers were wrapped around his glass, twitching ever so slightly. His eyes bounced from place to place, as if he were nervous.

 

He opened his mouth to say something else, but the bartender swooped in front of them, and refilled their drinks. “Thirsty pair tonight, aren’t ya?”

 

“We’re not together,” They said at the same time.

 

“All right, all right.” The bartender threw his hands up, and was beckoned down by more drunks needing drinks.

 

Sansa bit her lip as he walked away. She glanced over at Sandor again; it’s been practically three years since they had last seen each other. They didn’t know each particularly well, but the few times they had been alone… Sansa sighed, he thought her to be shallow and vain.

 

Sandor coughed once more, “So, Stark, it’s been a while…”

 

He swallowed audibly, and Sansa raised an eyebrow.

 

“Almost three years, I believe. How have you been? I hope your business is doing well-”

 

“Don’t.” He shot her a glare that chilled Sansa to her bones.

 

“What?”

 

“Pretend that you care, I just want to drink, and forget about the day.” He held his glass as if it the elixir of life.

 

Sansa brought her own glass to her lips, and muttered under her breath, “Typical.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing, just trying to make conversation with an old acquaintance, that’s all.” She finished off another drink, and made eye contact with the bartender. He came back, and filled her glass. He started to take away the bottle, but she shook her head, and tapped the counter with her perfectly manicured nail.

 

Sandor looked over at her; he never knew what to think of her. If anyone looked at her, they would think she was a stuck up sorority girl who lived off daddy’s money, but she wasn’t. She was always considerate of anyone around her, and held the most compassion he’d ever seen. Maybe that was her flaw; she looks past everyone’s faults to see the good, even when there was no good.

 

Sansa was looking at him when he focused his eyes. Her own eyes had begun to soften from her drinks. He still only on his third drink, but when she looked at him like that… it was as if he drank whole damn bar.

 

“I tried calling you,” she said without warning. Sansa bit her tongue after she said, but the words were already out in the air.

Sandor looked at her, a confused expression on his face. He thought back on the last time he’d seen her, and if he had been able to blush, his face would turn to the color of her hair.

 

They had been at a bar, similar to the one they were in now, and they ran into each other, just as they did tonight. Sandor just fixed her car, because though the little bird is smart, she didn’t have a mind to keep her car up to date on its check ups. He sat alone at the bar, and she was with a group of friends. She abandoned them halfway through the night, and sat with him. And in the shadows of the parking lot they kissed. It could be very well considered the best night of his life.

 

But he was certain Sansa didn’t think of it that way. When he got her repeated calls, he turned off his phone. When she stopped by his shop, he disappeared into the back. He didn’t want the embarrassment.

 

“I know,” was all he said.

 

Sansa bit her lip from saying anything that she might regret, so she settled on, “Oh,”

 

She twirled the half empty glass around on the coaster to give her hands something to do.

 

“Excuse me, but could I ask you to move to a table? We’re getting really packed up here, and I need the space. I’ll throw into two free drinks. Each.” The bartender looked at them pleadingly, and for the first time Sansa noticed how many people were cramming around the bar, yelling for their drinks.

 

“Of course,” Sansa smiled sweetly at the bartender, and followed a server back to where a singular empty was hiding behind a half wall.

 

She didn’t look back to see if Sandor was following her. Most of her wish he wouldn’t, that he would just pay for his drinks and leave. But a small, tiny, miniscule part of her hoped he would follow her. That he would talk to her. That they go from where they left off three years before.

 

It wasn’t as if she stopped her life after that night at the bar. But no other guy was better than Sandor. Years later, she could still feels how his lips felt on hers, and how his hands felt while they touched her skin. Nothing was enough after that.

 

“Here you are,” The server smiled widely, and bounced back to the bar. The table was for two, and scotch was already sitting on the table.

 

Sansa’s head began to feel light, and she took a seat slowly. When she looked up, she saw Sandor taking the seat across from her. His hands reached for his glass, and he drank the contents in a single gulp.

 

“I know you called me. I listened to every voicemail twice. Three times.” His voice was hesitant, but he pushed the words out.

 

Sansa’s lips tightened, “But you didn’t call me back.”

 

“No.”

 

“May I ask why?”

 

“I’m a coward.” He said it so fast, Sansa could barely hear him.

 

“What could you possibly be afraid of?” Sansa looked at him a like he was a madman. Maybe he was.

 

“We don’t know each other. But I know the type of person you should be with.”

 

“Three years, Sandor.” It was odd hearing his name come from her lips. He imagined it before, yes, but he didn’t think he would actually hear it. “Three years and I still think about you. We don’t know each other at all, but I want to. I want to talk with you. I’m not saying a marriage proposal, but I want to at least know you.”

 

He didn’t say anything, just looked at his empty glass. He tried to think of something to say; maybe that it was only that singular kiss. That it meant nothing to him. That she was overreacting. But she wasn’t. He knew that. His eyes flicked up to hers, but she wasn’t there. She stood up, and was walking away from him.

 

“Sansa, wait,” He got up, and starting manoeuvring his way through the crowd. He saw her red hair at the other side of the room. How she was already over there, he had no idea.

 

People kept knocking into him as he tried walking, “Oh bloody hell, move out of the fucking way.”

 

As he pushed people out of his way, he got to the door seconds after she did. She was already outside.

 

“Sansa, wait,” He called after. He saw her walking in the short green dress that had an open back. He tried to ignore how amazing she looked, so he could focus on what he was going to say.

 

“Sansa!” Another man’s voice echoed on the near empty street.

 

“Harry?” Sansa looked around, and saw the exact description that Marge had given her. She couldn’t believe her luck. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I got caught up the office, that’s what I texted you earlier. I am so sorry. Come on, let’s go back into the bar, and get to know each other. I can make up for everything. I promise,” he went to grab her hand.

 

Sandor slowly walked up to the pair of them, not sure what he was doing. The man looked at Sandor, and had to hide a look of horror on his face. He played it off well, but Sandor still noticed.

 

Sansa looked at him, and panic was obviously plastered across her face. She pulled her hand away.

 

“I… I need you to leave, Harry.” Sansa was nodding her head as she said it, as if reassuring herself.

 

“Sansa, come on, I was just a little late. I can make it up to you.” Harry was positive that his charm could work. Sandor watched him, and immediately wanted to wring his stupid little neck.

 

“You have lipstick on your neck, Harry.” Sansa shook her head, and started walking away again. A yellow taxi cab was driving by, and Sansa held her hand up. The cab pulled up along side where Sansa stood, her arms wrapped around her torso. A useless effort to ward off the cold.

 

“Sansa,” Sandor stripped off his flannel, and put it on her shoulders. “When you asked me what I was afraid of, the only thing I could think of was you. I’m afraid of you. We don’t know each other, the only thing we have is a faint memory from three years ago. But I still haven’t been able to get you out of my mind. I see you from time to time as I’m walking through the city, and every time I want to go up to you, and just speak with you. I have been angry with myself for the past three years because I was afraid. I don’t want to be a coward with you.”

 

He slowly wrapped his arms around her, and brought his face closer to hers. He watched her face as he did this, and when she closed her eyes, their lips met.

 

He thought that maybe over the years his imagination made it better than it was. But in truth, this reality was better than any imagination to bring to life.

 

Sansa’s mind was whipping around at an uncontrollable speed. She couldn’t pinpoint a single thought. She brought her arms up and intertwined her fingers in his hair. His rough skin was a direct contrast to her smooth skin. It didn’t feel weird or wrong. instead it felt right. Even in her heels, Sandor had to dip his head to meet her lips.

 

The back window of the cab rolled down, and a man’s deep voice sounded from the front seat, “You need to get somewhere, or you going to freeze your asses off?”

 

Sandor looked up, and at the cabbie, “We’ll walk, thanks.”

 

Sansa glanced at Sandor as if he were a madman, “Walking?”

 

As the cab drove off, leaving them in a fog of exhaust, Sandor leaned down, and whispered in her ear, “I live above the bar.”

 

He captured her lips once more, and let his hands roam across her bare back. Her skin was soft as silk, her lips sweet as cherries. He had never felt such ecstasy.

 

She broke away from the kiss; a soft smile spread across her lips. Her fingers entangled in his, and she pulled him closer to the doors. _How... how can this be happening?_

 

They walked hand in hand towards the doors, but he tugged to the side of the building. He pressed her against him, and a low moan bubbled from her throat.

 

"Three years," he whispered into her neck. "What a waste of three years."

 

Sansa nodded her head in agreement. Her hands tangled into his hair, and she smiled once more, meeting his eyes.

 

"Make it worth it," Sansa whispered against his lips.

 

Once more, they moved through the back alley way, and they came across a back door that Sansa had never seen before. Sandor pulled his keys out of his pocket and quickly pushed into the lock. Sansa traced shapes on the back of his neck, softly giggling to herself.

 

_What an absurdity this is. I never thought I would be going home with Sandor Clegane tonight._

 

As Sandor opened the door, Sansa pushed ahead of him, and took the first couple steps to the second level. She slid the binder that held her hair in a braid out, and shook her head. Her long fiery hair cascaded down to her mid-belly. She smiled wide as Sandor gaped at her.

 

_What a lucky, lucky man I am. Never would I think I would going home with Sansa Stark._

 

"Sansa Stark," he took one step up, then another, "you are the sun."

 

Sansa stared at him, not sure of what to say. What could she say? Nothing, so she took his hand in hers, and continued up the steps.

 

As they made into his room, Sansa looked around to see the simplest of items. One run down couch, and a small white table with two white chairs, and a faded blue rug.

 

“It's you," she whispered as she stepped out of her heels.

 

Standing behind her, Sandor nodded. He hesitantly placed a hand on her arm, rubbing gently. She turned to him, and once more put her arms around his shoulders.

 

"You are the moon," she whispered.

 

Sandor raised his eyebrows, but wasn't able to respond, her lips pressed against his.

 

She moved her lips, beckoning, coaxing, and begging him to give back. She didn't have to do any of that; he's wanted her since the day he saw her.

 

Slowly, as one, they made it through the doorway to his bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on winter break, so I hope to be posting much more. (I will go into more detail on the next chapter of Playing Games) 
> 
> •thank you for reading •


End file.
